


Incentive

by stephanericher



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 19:10:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7945858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Working out with Shiro is nice, even if it’s rarely just the two of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Incentive

Keith’s been working out for half an hour already when Shiro shows up. It’s unusual for him to be up and functioning at this hour of the morning, although to be fair he’s still rubbing the sleep from his eyes and Keith is pretty sure his t-shirt is on backwards (which is far cuter than it should be). But he’s here and awake enough to start stretching while Keith continues with his own routine.

Working out with Shiro is nice, even if it’s rarely just the two of them. Keith still can’t keep up with him the whole time, but he can for longer than he used to and it lets him know exactly where he is, how far he has to go. And then there’s the whole Shiro being in revealing (for him) clothes thing, and being able to see Shiro bend and stretch and sweat like this, even the way he’s doing right now, shaking the sleep from his body and bending over to place his palms flat on the floor and no matter how many times Keith sees him do that it still makes him almost lose his balance. Keith steadies himself and then dips down into another squat, and he’s not going to fixate quite so intensely on Shiro he forgets how many he’s done. Ten more to go, then nine.

He catches Shiro’s eye when he’s standing up again with four left; Shiro’s smiling at him with that goofy grin he sometimes gets, the grin that makes it hard not to return, the grin that makes Keith nearly forget his count again (no, three to go).

“Weights?” Shiro says when Keith’s done.

“Yeah,” says Keith.

And this is one area where he can’t keep up from the start; at least when they’re running or doing crunches he can push himself to match Shiro’s pace but the barbells Shiro starts with are larger than the ones Keith ends with and even though he knows it’s not a contest it still feels like he has to prove himself here in some way. And, once they’re five reps in, he decides that going at Shiro’s pace (despite his significantly smaller weights) should be proof enough for now. They keep going in relative silence, every so often one of them saying a number out loud as they count. It’s a nice silence, intense like leaning forward in their lions in the darkness of deep space as they try to go just a little faster, get to their destination just a little quicker. And then Shiro’s lifting just a little faster, stuttered a hair ahead of Keith but the distance is growing and Keith’s just about reached his limit here (at least for now). So much for keeping the pace. He finishes the last set and rests the weights on the ground, waving to Shiro as he walks toward the side of the room.

Keith wipes his face with the hem of his sweaty shirt; it doesn’t do much for the feeling but it does keep the sweat from dripping down and clinging steady to his eyelashes until it decides to fall into his eyes, and he’d like full vision to watch Shiro go. He’s counting reps, whispering the numbers under his breath as he goes, but his pace is still steady and he’s showing no signs of slowing down. He pulls more with the rest of his body when he’s lifting something with his metal arm; he probably already knows it and knowing Shiro it might be intentional, a way to even things out while making them simultaneously less even. Sweat is making Shiro’s shirt cling to his back, and Keith can see the outline of every muscle as it contracts and pushes, and he can almost feel them under his hands if he imagines hard enough. And Shiro’s legs are steady under the shifting weights above, massive steel cables on a suspension bridge, taut with pressure. Keith’s mouth is dry and parched; he runs his tongue along the inside of his lips but the gesture’s hollow because his tongue is just as dry.

He’s got a bottle of water in the corner; as he goes off to get it he hears the muffled clunk of the weights being set down against the floor, and when he turns around Shiro’s already headed over toward the side of the room, wiping the sweat from his cheeks with his shirt. Keith pauses, water bottle in hand. Shiro sinks down against the wall, as if he’s about to do a wall-sit, but then he keeps sliding down until his ass hits the floor. He cracks his neck; Keith pops the cap of the bottle and gulps down the water. It soothes his throat, cooling him from the inside out, spreading into his chest. That’s enough for now. Keith caps the bottle again as he heads back over to Shiro; he’s still not ready to start going hard again and even if he was he’d still take a few seconds to sit with Shiro, He means to crouch down next to him and gets as far as bending his knees before Shiro reaches out and grabs his knees, pulling Keith down and into his lap, pressed against Shiro’s chest.

“Sit with me a while?” says Shiro.

He says it lower in his vocal register than usual; Keith can hear the scratch of his throat and feel the vibrations of Shiro’s chest against his shoulder, even though he doesn’t have to say it that loudly because his lips are ten centimeters (and that’s being generous) away from Keith’s ear. How can he say no? (Can he say no to a rhetorical question like this in the first place?) They’re both covered in sweat and any drop in temperature (imagined or not) from the water has already been canceled out by their combined body heat, and it’s gross and grimy and dirty but not in a way Keith really minds.

Up close he can see the beads of perspiration gathering at Shiro’s hairline, sliding down his neck and gathering in the stretched-out and fraying neckline of his t-shirt, the dips and definitions of his muscles where the shirt is sticking to his skin like a stubborn piece of packing tape to the wrong part of a cardboard box. He can smell that perfect exercising-Shiro smell, soap and citrus and sweat and rusty gutters (which, when Keith had tried to pick out what exactly it was, hadn’t sounded particularly romantic or appealing but it’s very Shiro and very, very nice) and feel how firm his body is, solid chest and flesh arm that yields less than the metal one and legs like packed desert ground that they don’t even bother to rip up and replace with concrete.

“Water?” Keith asks, holding up the bottle.

Shiro adjusts his grip around Keith’s waist and grabs it with his free hand, thumbing open the cap and chugging down most of the water. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes glancing back to Keith.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have had so much.”

“It’s fine,” says Keith.

Shiro quirks an eyebrow, and Keith flops his head down on Shiro’s shoulder. It’s comfortable; the sweat’s all poured out of him by now and it’s sticking his hair to his neck and forehead but it’s not making his clothes chafe against his skin yet and he could (should) go out there and do a little more. He braces his hand on Shiro’s thigh, ring finger slotting into the groove of a deep, thick scar under the fabric of Shiro’s shorts that Shiro still doesn’t want to talk about (or want him to see or feel in the first place). Shiro’s face is passive but his body’s just a little bit more tense and so on his way up Keith places a quick kiss on Shiro’s forehead.

“You coming?”

“Give me a few more.”

Shiro reaches for his hand and Keith lets him have it back for a moment so he can squeeze it. He waits for Keith to move before dropping it completely, and his eyes are still focused on Keith’s back like sunbeams through rusted-out holes in the roof, still pleasant and still noticeable even when he’s already this hot. And even if his body isn’t as firm and tight as Shiro’s all around (at least not yet), Shiro’s going to watch him anyway (as if he didn’t have enough incentive to work out in the first place).


End file.
